


Half Life

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Substitution, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2175405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor is dead, but not to Fingolfin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half Life

Court officials and friends alike insisted that he, as High King, should not bother himself with Curufin, that the Fëanorion wasn't entitled to meet in private with him so often, that others could take care of whatever he wanted to discuss. They couldn't have imagined, and thankfully, that it was the High King who wanted, and that what he wanted was something only he could take from Curufin. 

Fingolfin had come to depend on his nephew. He hankered for him, each time he spied his arrival from his window, anticipation making it hard to maintain his dignified exterior. 

It was no wonder, in truth. 

Hearing Curufin speak, watching him as he talked, everything from the absent-minded way in which he tucked his hair behind his ears when it was unbound, to his grimaces, the rhythmic lilt of his voice – it all reminded Fingolfin too much of his half-brother, and beneath the hate, the unexpressed, unwanted love he had never ceased to feel for him had festered into obsession, an insatiable beast that keened and demanded.

The first time had been on a cold, bleak day, soon after the coronation. They had chanced to be alone, and Curufin's manner and appearance – his barely bridled resentment – had exasperated Fingolfin to the point that he had slapped him, in a vain attempt to silence his craving. The contact with his skin, and the way Curufin looked with his hair dishevelled by the force of the blow had only set it free.

The kiss and then the sex – a desperate, pitiful thing – had followed almost seamlessly.

Curufin had accepted them with a strange acquiescence. Fingolfin realized all too well that it must not have been pleasant for him, but he chose not to delve too deep in his nephew's motivations (it wasn't an easy, or a safe, thing to do), content with the tacit agreement they soon reached.

By then, it had become a ritual.

Curufin, haughty and self-assured as ever, was ushered in by a disgruntled-looking guard who only witnessed Curufin's curt greeting before retreating into the corridor. Fingolfin immediately led his nephew across the public antechamber into his private study (a modest room, compared to the one he had had in Tirion), and locked the door. 

Curufin wordlessly sprawled on one of the armchairs, and at that moment he was the king waiting for homage that never failed to come, because Fingolfin promptly knelt between his spread legs, and freed his cock.

He licked and sucked it, and would often look up while he did, because from that angle the illusion that he was pleasuring Fëanor was almost perfect – the severe tilt of his chin, the thin lips slightly curved in arrogance, and the bright grey eyes that never looked at him, just like Fëanor's had never truly seen him. 

At times he rued that he wasn't able to compare their smell – not at such an intimate level – or the taste of the seed that flooded his mouth, and which he always eagerly swallowed, holding the tip of Curufin's cock between his lips until his orgasm had subsided. 

After that Fingolfin laid Curufin down on the only sofa in the room, and prepared him with the oil he kept in a small nondescript jar tucked away in one of his drawers, while laving his chest with kisses.

He sheathed himself slowly, carefully, his hands hooked behind Curufin's knees. His thrusts were shallow and regular at first, but Curufin had a way of goading him – smirking at him, bucking as if to toss him, dragging his nails down his back, and he soon lost all semblance of control. 

And then the mounting pleasure erased the differences that did exist between father and son, and Fingolfin moaned “Fëanáro”, once and twice, and again, again, again until his voice broke into gasps and sobs with the increased speed of his thrusts, and the heat pooling maddeningly in his loins, and then-

“Ñolofinwë”

-returned Curufin, in his father's voice, with the same mix of scorn and derision Fëanor would have scourged his half-brother with, and it never failed to undo Fingolfin. He came with a muffled cry, burying himself as deep in Curufinwë's body as he could, lost in the delusion-fueled, cruel, ecstasy, and wished he would never find his way back.


End file.
